By Any Other Name
by x-Earl-Ciel-Phantomhive-x
Summary: 'What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.'


Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or any other affiliations of the Black Butler series. They belong to Yana Toboso. I also have no claim to Edgar Allen Poe's, 'The Raven,' or William Shakespeare's 'Romeo and Juliet.'

Author's Note: I have wanted to do this idea for quite a while. It did not quite turn out as I expected it to, nor as I had hoped, but I am satisfied with it, nonetheless. Thank you all for reading, and please enjoy.

**By Any Other Name**

xXx

'_What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.'_

_-Juliet, Act II, Scene ii_

'_Romeo and Juliet' –William Shakespeare_

xXx

Did a name mold a person's identity? Or, by the forming of one's self-awareness, does the name shape itself to suit the person? Was one's identity unchangeable, as permanent as a given name, or could one truly tear themselves from the path of life that is set for them, simply by willing it? Of course they could. He had. Humanity had no excuse, then. Humanity in itself was a contradiction of the belief that a name shaped one's identity. Creatures that hide behind falsehood, put on pretty faces for the world, when in reality, the person underneath is ugly, vulgar, repulsive. Liars. Masqueraders, playing a game that would cost them their souls…not that he was really one to talk. Humanity was a menace, naming themselves as 'beautiful,' and 'kind,' and 'God's creatures,' when in reality they were maggots writhing beneath the surface of the wound on existence that was their creation, that was the Earth…

He himself could not claim to be any better. The boy named 'Ciel Phantomhive' had died years ago…so who sat now, in this plush armchair before the fireplace, a warm cup of Earl Grey clutched in hand, awaiting the day that _his_ death would come? Was he truly the Earl of Phantomhive? No. The Earl of Phantomhive had been his father, Vincent. The name that he bore now was stolen. He wore the masque well, and only to achieve something that was as revolting morally as the sins that others chose to commit physically. He was no better. No human could be perfect.

True perfection could only be found in imperfection that embraced itself as such.

The only true perfection that he had ever found was the most imperfect being of all.

"…Sebastian."

How ironic, then, that this demon was called something, someone, that he was not.

Dark crimson irises widened slightly in the glowing firelight, not surprised by the summons, but at attention, ready to fulfill whatever order might spill past those pale lips wrapped about the rim of the small, fragile china cup, as the demon's famished lips would one day capture the small, fragile china doll. Said lips parted, a deep, eloquent voice calm in its inquiry.

"Yes, My Lord?"

The bottom of the china cup met the decorative saucer with a soft 'clink,' a sigh on the tip of the young royal's tongue, but suppressed. To one who did not know Ciel Phantomhive, it would simply appear as though the boy were relaxed, but to anyone who understood the child, which cumulatively resulted in the black-clad presence alone, it would be obvious that the boy was deep in thought.

"…That is not your real name."

This time, the faintest light of surprise lit the dark gaze that hovered over the youth, but only a surprise for the sudden and seemingly unprovoked observation. Soft-gloved fingers clasped gently, unfettered about the handle of the warm teapot, pausing in their advance to refill the cup on his Master's lap that had been emptied. His voice almost sounded, his expression almost appeared, no, most certainly appeared, amused. Arrogant, condescending in the personally distinct way that only Sebastian could be.

"…Why, of course it is, My Lord."

The advance was continued, scalding steam spilling over the edge of the cup as the sweet fragrance seeped into the Earl's skin. His tone was clipped, but not irritated.

"No. It is not."

The butler's thin brow rose once more, this time not in surprise, but in curiosity, expectation. He was waiting patiently for a reiteration.

"I gave you that name."

Crimson eyes closed acceptingly, the corners of pale lips softly curling toward a smirk as the pot was tipped, the beverage withdrawn.

"And that is exactly _why_ it is my 'real' name, My Lord."

The child's long fingers tapped impatiently on the handle of the cup, the firelight dancing in the glassy azure iris, waking the spirits of the past to take their place in the flickering flames. The air was silent for a moment save for the cracking of the splitting wood, the popping of the embers as they flared up in the bright, blinding pique of life, then faded, died out so very soon after their creation. Such short lives.

"…Demons have real names."

It was not a question.

A pristine handkerchief wiped clean the spout of the pot, both coming to rest upon the cart before the demon. This time he seemed completely unsurprised by where his Master's train of thought was leading. He did not shift his gaze from his task at the cart, that arrogant expression melting into one of calm consent.

"…Yes."

The steaming cup was set aside, the porcelain fogging about the edges, a reflection of the child's gaze before it closed.

"Not the names that their Masters give them. You must have something that you are called beforehand."

Once more, the butler gave little acknowledgement, continuing his task of wiping away the residue, his own gaze closing to mirror his Masters.

"…Yes."

The boy's visible eye opened, slid to observe the shadow of a man with scrutiny, and slight annoyance.

The butler did not have to open his eyes to know that his Master was looking at him, and the soft smirk, halfway to a genuine smile, returned, his long fingers moving deftly over the silverware and china, imperfections disappearing beneath the perfect white of the gloves, of the handkerchief.

"The Young Master must remember that my kind has existed since the beginning of time, and your kind have expanded from the original languages spoken. Regarding names, most demons are more than likely called by something that the Master may not even recognize as a word."

Most. Not all. This was a distraction. This was meant to deter him. That meant that he was winning.

One bony knee crossed over the other, a dainty elbow digging into the plush cushion on the arm of the chair, the heat of the fireplace dusting over his exposed limbs, gently creeping across his skin.

" '_I will ask thee but once: Is it thy wish to form a Contract?'_ That was the language that you first used when you spoke to me…when you were in your _true_ form…"

Ciel could not remember how he had appeared wholly. It had been a terrifying moment, one that had been suppressed to the deepest corners of his mind, never to resurface. He remembered small things…talons, dark feathers, blackblackblack…

"I believe that I understand that language quite well."

The butler chuckled, his mouth curling fully now into an amused smirk.

"My Master is assuming. I will have him know that my first language was Latin."

Sebastian never spoke of himself without provocation. This was another distraction. Check.

"Latin has been spoken since the beginning of time." the boy said, taking the cup in hand once more, punctuating his statement with a long sip. "However, the olden styled English with which you spoke to me was only used between the mid-fifth and mid-twelfth centuries. Which means…that you were either born in that time, or had spent so much time in English-speaking countries that it was necessary for you to learn it."

The butler seemed unfazed, going about his task with an air of sarcastic disinterest for his Master's ramblings.

"…Your true form has feathers."

This seemed to pique the butler's interest, as his brow rose slightly, and his gave finally graced the boy, though the gaze was empty.

"Oh? My Master remembers that? Well, well…yes, indeed it does, but I do not quite understand the connection between the language that I spoke and my true form…"

He knew all too well. That was why he finished up the cleaning, took the cup from fragile fingers, and tried to end the subject.

"Rather, My Master should not concern himself with such things. It is late. You should rest, My Lord."

Check.

The boy did not stand, but released the cup.

"We met in the nineteenth century. Why would you speak to me in twelfth century language, if it was not your first language?"

The butler paused only inconceivably minutely in his motions as he placed the empty cup on the cart. Check.

"Edgar Allen Poe was born in the nineteenth century."

The demon turned back toward the boy, his expression nothing less than exasperated.

"And what relevance does that have? What point is My Master attempting to make, exactly?"

"The Raven was also published during the nineteenth century."

The butler's brow rose, his gaze voicing 'Is that so? Go on.'

" '_And his eyes have all the seeming of a __demon's__ that is dreaming…and my __soul__ from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, shall be lifted, Nevermore-!'_ "

The butler advanced again, offering a hand to help the child up.

"My Young Master certainly is quite fond of that poem, to be able to recite the lines so…"

The hand was rejected, the boy's gaze not leaving the fire.

"Perhaps…the Raven _did_ answer Poe's question."

The butler paused, his fingers curling back in on themselves, the corners of his lips twitching maliciously toward a smirk, a gleam in his eyes that told Ciel that he was _oh so close_, and that the demon _loved_ it.

"…Oh? And which question would that be, Young Master?"

"All of them...they were simply all the same answer…even the question about what his name was."

Checkmate.

The butler's smirk turned absolutely demonic, sadistic, his tall form rising from its bent position to loom over the back of the chair, to loom over the child, casting his tall, dark shadow across the floor, engulfing chair, fire, child…

_'And my **soul**, from out that shadow...'_

"…And what was his name, My Lord?"

There was no hesitation as he leaned downward, closing in on his target like the bird of prey that he was. If his Master had been so curious about his name, he could have simply asked. Then again, his Young Master was quite wise, as he had just proven, and was aware that if he simply asked, he would lose this little game. He supposed that it may have been obvious, but no human before had come to the conclusion that his Little Master just had, not even when he openly told the only other person ever to ask.

The child's dark head tilted upward, his gaze of ice meeting one of fire, pale brow kissed by the dark locks falling from the butler's bangs, pale lips just inches apart, and moving as cautiously into checkmate as either would dare, closer, closer…

Talons and dark feathers and writhing, furious shadow, and the gleaming eyes of the demon and blackblackblack and _'Come, My Lord, call my name…'_

The boy's voice was a soft whisper against the dark of the night as the fire died, against the pale, cold lips that moved in to steal the warmth, the breath, the life from the child's very bones.

"…_Nevermore._"


End file.
